THIS BLOG IS NO LONGER OPERATIONAL. PLEASE ENJOY WHAT IS HERE, AND DO LEAVE A COMMENT IF YOU WISH. NORTH CAROLINA'S NEW POET LAUREATE IS CATHY SMITH BOWERS. SHE WILL SOON HAVE HER OWN WEBSITE THROUGH THE NORTH CAROLINA ARTS COUNCIL SITE. I WILL BE SHIFTING MY ATTENTION TO HERE, WHERE I AM, (SEE SIDEBAR)USING IT TO DRAW ATTENTION TO WRITERS WHOSE WORK DESERVES ATTENTION. I INVITE YOU TO VISIT ME THERE.For a video of the installation ceremony, please go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0xAk6fOzaNE.

Monday, February 1, 2010

POET OF THE WEEK: JOHN YORK

(John York, NC Teacher of the Year, at the NC English Teachers Banquet in Winston-Salem)

John York has been a friend of mine for many years. He teaches English and creative writing at Penn-Griffin School for the Arts, has been a devoted member of the NC English Teachers Association, winning their Teacher of the Year award, and best of all, is a splendid poet, one of the best in our state. His chapbook titled Naming the Constellations will be published this summer in Spring Street Editions' chapbook series. He's a graduate of the UNCG MFA program; his work has appeared in numerous journals and magazines, as well as in several chapbooks. His prizes for writing include a Literary Award for Poetry from Greensboro Review and the Poet Laureate Award, in 2008, from the North Carolina Poetry Society. His poems have recently appeared in Appalachian Journal, International Poetry Review, and Pembroke Magazine. The titles of his chapbooks are Picking Out (Nebo Poetry Press) and Johnny's Cosmology (Hummingbird Press).

"Naming the Constellations" appeared in Pine Needles and those who are interested may find it at NCPS website:

Against the black pines,a great egret, so large, so white, wading,then freezing above its reflection.

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Every Independence Dayit returned to our pond where it pretendedto be two reeds and a patch of sunlight,until the splash, the snaky lunge,the image shattered, rippled, coming back,the beak pointing skyward,the momentary swelling of the neck.How I wanted to sneak infor a closer look but had no cover,so the alarmed bird would spring up,laboring, beating the air,circling, then heading over the horizonto another pond, a quieter place.

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And I imagined the minnows, frogs, salamandersall relieved, all gathering in the darkto tell horror storiesof Snapping Turtle, Mr. Cottonmouth, Big Daddy Bass—but saving a shuddering whisper for the Lightning Striker,Death’s Angel,and proclaiming the name sacred, a secret.

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But here, smelling the shore mudand listening to the water, the wind as quiet as bird’s breath,I pretend to be the plumed wonder,and, solitary, I wade in deeper, one step,then, another—wishing I were never distracted,never deceived by the radiant image(a long beak, hidden wings)—I concentrate, waiting for what’s moving below the surface,a flicking shadow, breathing, moving toward my feet.

Substitute

It was a long day for my father, milkingto be done by sunrise,then the noise, the shouting of drivers,dump trucks kicking up dust,rushing back and forth between the fieldand the wide trench silo—carved by a bulldozer, the onethat scraped away the apple trees—trucks loaded by the green harvesting machineeating its way down the rows of cornleaving nothing but stumps,the trucks roaring back to the trench, silage mounded,the men putting it to bedunder a black plastic tarp, my father using old tiresto hold down the edges—all the men sweating and covered in dirt,tassel, bits of corn leaf.

After the fields were sheared clean,after I brought in the herd, my father wentto do the evening milking.How were four children to know that the tarpwas sacred, that the clawsof the dog, chasing us againand again over the black mountain,would make enough holes to ruin everything?

Daddy came in at dusk,raged his dead cigar back to life:with the voice of an angry god,Dad commanded Smoky to come to the chain,Smoky the blond shepherd-collie mutt,Smoky the laughing dog,and with tail between legs Smoky obeyed,Dad attached the chain to the collarand threw the dog into the car, sped over the hay fielddown to the trench, jerkedSmoky around and yelled as he beatthe yelping, writhing animal with his fist, with the chain—and I was the dog writhing and yelping,it was all my fault.

I sat with my dog longinto the night, there under the clothesline,until my mother coaxed me into the house.

And Smoky followed the sharecroppers one day,up to the main road, where he was killed chasing cars.

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About Me

I've lived in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina since 1968, though I'm a native of SW Georgia. My paternal grandmother was born in the Blue Ridge, and I grew up wanting to live here. Where I am.
I've published five collections of poetry, the most recent 4 being with LSU Press, and have published poetry in magazines ranging from The Atlantic Monthly to Appalachian Heritage. But I also hike, bang pots and pans around in my kitchen, and love several dogs who leave fur all over my carpets. I write poetry because it's my way of singing back to the world both within and without.